


but everything looks better when the sun goes down

by Coshledak



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Anal, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Implied captivity, M/M, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Somnophilia, Tie and tease, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coshledak/pseuds/Coshledak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's become some unwritten rule that, if they should argue, Charles retreating to bed for the night is as figuratively a closed door as it is literally. The argument is over, at least until morning, and that's it. Erik doesn't know, precisely, how it was that this rule popped up, but he's been dealing with it for months. </p>
<p>Up until now, it's never really bothered him, though, at least not to this extent. He's been fairly good at convincing himself that he needs the same space that Charles does when they fight, that he's perfectly fine moving to the second bedroom in the suite. Eventually, though, that excuse was bound to dissipate into nothing, and apparently today is that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but everything looks better when the sun goes down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tahariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/gifts).



“We'll discuss this in the morning,” Charles says, tired, and the next sound in the suite is the click of the bedroom door.

It's become some unwritten rule that, if they should argue, Charles retreating to bed for the night is as figuratively a closed door as it is literally. The argument is over, at least until morning, and that's it. Erik doesn't know, precisely, how it was that this rule popped up, but he's been dealing with it for months. 

Up until now, it's never really bothered him, though, at least not to this extent. He's been fairly good at convincing himself that he needs the same space that Charles does when they fight, that he's perfectly fine moving to the second bedroom in the suite. Eventually, though, that excuse was bound to dissipate into nothing, and apparently today is that day. 

The news humming on a low volume in the background has done nothing to help his mood, but then that isn't too shocking. The pretty blonde announcer, who may or may not have replaced the other pretty blonde announcer from last week, is chattering away about the attempt to build bridges with the United Kingdom. Her voice alone is enough to set him on edge, excluding the topic at hand. But then, anything to do with mutant politics has always been enough to make him grind his teeth. They have so few victories as it is.

His concern isn't with politics right now, though, it's with the telepath currently sleeping away an argument in their shared bedroom. Somehow, thinking of Charles manages to dissuade his mind from a topic that usually has no distractions. He supposes he isn't all that surprised, really, given that personal life always manages to sink its claws into things no matter how important they might otherwise be. Charles, in particular, has a way of worming his way into things that he'd be better kept out of. Hiding things from a telepath is hard enough, let alone a telepath with a shred of intelligence about them (which, unfortunately, is the most common type of telepath).

But this has nothing to do with intelligence or politics, it is entirely home-oriented, personal and deep and _infuriating_ because of it. How long, exactly, Charles has been yanking him along this thread, he'd rather not think about, but he's realized it now. Things can't be both ways—not if they'll be like this. Charles doesn't get the option of being a privileged captive and in a domestic relationship as well. Not when their arguments are tantamount to personal wars.

Whenever they approach comfort, whenever things seem like they may balance, Charles starts shifting. His true, manipulative nature starts simmering beneath the surface, and Erik hates it. He hates that he has to remind himself, every time, that this isn't a domestic relationship. He hates that Charles himself seems determined to make sure he doesn't forget it. It's bad enough that he's pushed into a role that he's never been meant to fit, a role that feels conditioned and uncomfortable against his skin because no one's bothered to guide him through it, without someone reminding him of it. Without _Charles_ reminding him of it.

Still, he doesn't precisely know what he's doing when he's standing in the opened doorway of their bedroom, the blade of light falling just shy of the bed. It's not all that surprising, though, because he's spent a good portion of his life acting without thinking things entirely through. Never big actions, just small ones, and yet he's never been so out of touch with his mind that he hasn't been able to retrace his steps. If he thinks back, he can find out how he got to this precise spot, but it'll be a mystery what driving force in the back of his mind led him to it.

His eyes are still adjusting to the light, so he can't see Charles, but he can hear and _feel_ him shift in the bed. During the day he wears a tracking collar—fitting, for a pampered pet—but not here. At night they go back to methods that have always comforted Erik more than the technology that comforts others. All he has to do is brush his powers out to feel the thick bands of metal on Charles' ankles, and the ones on his wrists are even more enticing because of the slow pulse beating against them.

It's the ones on his ankles that he hears though, because they're attached to the bed by sturdy and delicate chains. Each link carefully is constructed to give Charles easy movement with their lack of weight, but to be nearly impossible to break apart. Unless, of course, you happened to be the man who made them.

It's a trade-off, really. If Charles wants to sleep alone, then he can sleep bound to the bed. Erik's stomach does an unpleasant twist at the thought that he would ever choose such a thing over just accepting some end to their argument so they could sleep together. What's the phrase—actions speak louder than words? Well, Charles' words alone speak volumes; his actions are deafening.

There's no sense of guilt or hovering question in his mind about what he's doing when he steps into the room. He just does it, striding up beside the bed. When Charles murmurs and shifts in his sleep, Erik doesn't think much of it. Technically this is _his_ bedroom too, and he has just as much right to be there. Unwritten rules don't really count for much, and ones that haven't been properly discussed count for even less than that. 

Captive or not, Charles works during the day. Not physical labor, of course, but enough mental work to tire him out and guarantee that he's down for the count at the end of the day. Still, his telepathy drums steadily on the fringe of Erik's mind, a senseless pattern that probably aligns with Charles' brainwaves while he's sleeping. They've never really discussed the nuances of his telepathy when he's not consciously using it. He makes a mental note to venture into that if he ever gets the chance; Charles does enjoy talking about his mutation.

That makes it not so surprising that he doesn't wake up at the closer presence of Erik's mind, which Erik knows Charles can feel. The slight stirring is the most he'll get, which suits Erik just fine. The slight _clink_ of the chains settles as Charles' legs find a comfortable position under the covers, the blanket settling low on his waist; the suite tends to run a little bit warm. His chest is bare, but Erik sees the slight sliver of elastic that peeks over the top of the blankets. 

Well, perhaps not 'bare'. There are old bruises, bite barks and the faint crescents and trails of nails along his sides. The latter are mostly faded, if only because Erik has always been a biter rather than prone to scratching, but each mark starts a new spark of heat. He can't tell yet if it's anger or something more, but the low grip on his stomach leads him in the direction of 'something more.'

Charles showered before bed, and his hair is still damp, particularly where it clings to the back of his neck. Erik's hand is mid-motion to un-stick it when he stops, instead diverting his attention down to the blanket resting over Charles' prone form. It outlines his legs nicely, but the shape is vague at best. There's just enough of a gap that Erik has no trouble slipping his fingers beneath it, edging it down until he can see the blue striped pyajama pants that he's become so familiar with. Charles doesn't even shift.

Everything comes rushing back in a hailstorm, pinging off of his skin with their incessant collisions. Their argument, the fact that, for all intents and purposes, Charles has no _right_ to argue with him. Not when he agreed to this deal of his own volition. He could have let his family go, it wasn't as though they would have been subjected to anything worse than the rest of the human population, but he hadn't. He'd agreed to this, willingly.

And in that train of thought, Charles has agreed to everything that comes with it. He's agreed to this life and the privilege it affords him and his family, as well as anything else that may come along with it. Including Erik, who is not so much a consolation prize as the gamekeeper himself. He isn't much of a gamekeeper if he doesn't enforce his own rules then, is he?

Charles shifts when Erik's hand slides over his lower back, his knee sinking into the bed, but he doesn't wake up. He just rolls onto his stomach, hand resting listlessly beside him on the pillow, and sleeps on. The environment he lives in has never had much bearing on how Charles handles himself—he sleeps as though he's still tucked in his mansion in Westchester, where his parents' money can make everything untoward go away. All the more reason, Erik supposes, to make it very clear that _isn't_ his life anymore.

He strokes his fingers over the dip of Charles' back, up towards the curve of his behind, in steady lines. There's no reaction, but that's good, because it means Charles has acclimated himself to the touch. He doesn't notice when Erik's fingers slip lower to start tugging down his sleep-pants, or when a second hand comes into play to guide them off of his hips. If anything he registers the trouble Erik is having and shifts, canting his hips off the bed a little bit and making it that much easier.

Charles naked (well, mostly naked) on a bed is nothing new, but Erik's never really looked at him this way when he's been asleep. He's relaxed and pale in the dim light, to which Erik's eyes have adjusted. His mouth goes dry, the rage dulled by a pulse of thick _want_. There's something too appealing about it, something that pulls blood and attention to his cock so quickly that he has to lean more onto the bed. Charles doesn't move, not even the slightest hitch in his breathing.

Erik's having trouble settling on his emotions when he pulls the bedside drawer open by its metal handle. One part of him wants to be furious at himself and what he is doing. Another wants to be furious at Charles for not paying attention—damn the fact he is sleeping—and for the simple fact that he drove him to do this in the first place. But the part of him that's winning—that's making his fingers extract the half-used tube of lubricant from the bedside table, that's focusing his eyes on Charles' backside and the pale curve of his ass and dip of his back—is the part of him that just aches. It wants more than it has any other time, and he isn't sure why. The vulnerability, the control, the vindication—he doesn't want to think about it.

He successfully pushes it out of his mind as he readjusts himself, straddling one of Charles' thighs. His knee is planted on the pants, which he only managed to wrestle down to Charles' mid-thigh before deciding he didn't want to risk any lower after Charles shuddered from the chill. Charles' legs aren't spread as wide as he'd like, but he's more than willing to work with it as he slicks up a finger and trails it up the crease of Charles' ass. He's done this enough times to know what he's doing, to ignore the pulse thudding away in his temples and cock as he massages his finger over Charles' hole. It tenses for a second before Charles lets out a low sigh, practically hidden against the pillow.

Even before Erik, Charles wasn't inexperienced. That's the thought that takes place as he slips the finger inside, the familiar burn of Charles' heat swelling up against the first knuckle. He's slow, and he finds his eyes watching Charles' face as he presses his finger deeper. At the slightest flicker of muscle he stops, waits, until the pliable muscle relaxes again, like it's forgotten that it ever doesn't have Erik's finger intruding against it. 

Usually prep is rushed and sloppy, Charles squirming and canting under him as he insists _no, it's fine, go ahead, please, Erik, please god just—_ but now it's not. In the silence of the bedroom, Erik takes his time, feels every slight, out-of-place quiver of Charles' muscles. He listens to the murmurs, the hitches in Charles' breath, and memorizes them. It's his espionage days all over again, where every nuance and detail matters. That's compounded, everything even more invaluable, when he starts with the second finger.

Charles' quiet moan breaks off into an incoherent murmur when Erik flicks his wrist, hook his fingers up into his prostate. He can't resist it then, and extends his powers to flick on the light on his bedside table, furthest from Charles. It's a pale golden light anyway, once it gets through the lampshade, and it isn't enough to wake Charles up. But it's enough to let Erik see the faint flush that's spread on his cheeks from his careful work, his fingers twitching against the expanse of pillow in front of his face. Erik has to grip his own thigh—he doesn't dare lean forward and lose his view—to fend off the latest wave of lightheadedness as more blood relocates south.

His cock is straining against the zip of his jeans by now, but he doesn't dare indulge in undoing it yet. The total control—over Charles and himself—is intoxicating. He makes himself focus on the hold against his fingers, the fact that Charles' mouth has gone slack from its former restless line, and anything else that will shove him closer to the edge of his tolerance level. It's the subtle shift of Charles' hips, like he's subconsciously trying to get Erik's fingers even deeper, that does him in.

He feels like he's scrambling out of his clothes, shucking off anything below the waist. He abandons any attempt at removing the shirt in his impatience to get on the bed, to follow the overload of _want-need-mine_ coursing through his head. The fact that Charles can't feel it really does make him wonder how his telepathy works at night, when he's sleeping, because Erik feels like he's screaming it at the top of his lungs. Every muscle in his body is strained with the words, wound tight around the heat pooling in his cock that just flames brighter from the warmth of Charles' body on the bed.

He has to wrestle Charles' pants a bit lower, but he doesn't risk removing them entirely. Besides, when he slips between Charles' legs and pins the material under his calves, it helps to keep Charles' legs pinned if he should wake up. No sooner has he considered it than a warm buzz is seeping through his mind. The idea of Charles waking up with Erik already buried inside of him makes his skin prickle with heat from his neck down to his tailbone. Whether Charles likes it or not, it'll be the first thing he really feels; it'll be inescapable.

It takes control to keep himself from just thrusting into the languid heat of Charles' body, lying there with no idea the effect he has on Erik. His mouth runs dry again, fingers trailing over the smooth softness of Charles' ass until he can slip his thumbs into the crease and gently pull his cheeks apart. He has to bite down on his tongue to keep himself contained, but it does the trick. The pain just enough to keep him from toppling into something—now he was determined to make sure Charles didn't wake up too soon.

He presses forward, slowly, until the head of his cock just breaches past the first ring of muscle. His eyes shoot up to Charles' face, the faint hitch in his breathing as his body tenses around Erik, trying to suck him deeper. His bright lips are parted a little more, caught up in a silent sound, as his fingers curl into the pillowcase. Erik's muscles are stiff with annoyance and anticipation but he waits, lets Charles settle again, although he can only gauge by the squeeze of the muscles around his cock. When he's sure Charles isn't about to stir awake, he continues; this time, Charles stays under.

He's been in Charles before—consensually—but it's never been like this. There's something more receptive about the body under his, something as uncontrolled as Erik feels. When Charles is awake there's composure and thorns and careful barriers that Erik can't cross and can't drive Charles over, but not like this. Once he picks up a rhythm, Charles starts shifting under him. He moans, low and quiet, as Erik's hips thrust forward to cradle against his ass, aiming for his prostate with every drive. His face flushes brighter in the light from the lamp, mouth wide and lips faintly glittering, and Erik wonders when he managed to lick his lips.

He loses himself in the sensation, in the easy give of Charles' heat, and his thrusts pick up. The grip around his cock is a call to thrust deeper each time, sinking himself as far into the body beneath his as he can. He moves a hand to Charles' hip, the other one bracing against the bed so he can hold himself up. He gradually loses the sense of waiting, of _careful_ because he doesn't _want_ Charles to stay asleep anymore. He wants him to wake up, to feel this, and to remember his real place in this equation.

He gets his wish.

Charles doesn't jerk awake with a start, but he comes back into himself with a groan and a murmur that Erik isn't listening for. It's the spike in his tired pulse that Erik feels, beating against the metal on his cuffs, and registers. He forces himself even deeper now, earning a sleep-cracked outcry as Charles arches off the bed, hips squirming and muscles clenching so deliciously that Erik very nearly loses himself to it. 

Charles is talking to him when he stirs out of it. “—Erik? What do you—”

He's trying to push himself up, as if it'll help, and has apparently registered that his legs are pinned down by the weight on his pyjama bottoms, pinching the elastic around his thighs. The chains shift with the bend of his knees, but Erik tightens them so Charles can't kick him in the back, puts him on a short enough leash than Charles has only minimal movement. His hand shoots forward before the haze has cleared completely, and he spans his fingers across the space between Charles' bared shoulder-blades. It's easy to push him back down once he latches onto the metal cuffs, dragging Charles' hands behind him and pinning them against the dip of his lower back. He watches Charles' fingers spasm, confused.

Erik watches his face; he can _feel_ Charles coming into awareness just as much as he can see it. Sleep clings with determination to his mind, but he's realizing what's happening. The bright blush on Charles' cheeks as his body shifts, adjusts, remembers, _realizes_ the intrusion. Erik rolls his hips for good measure, sees Charles' eyes widen and his breath hitch so hard that it's visible in the stutter of his shoulders. When he starts trying to collect himself, Erik can see that too. It pisses him off, but it's also satisfying in how clearly difficult it is for him.

“Erik—” But he chokes on the thought when Erik draws out and thrusts back inside. It feels distinctly different, clamping down on him with Charles' new consciousness, but he doesn't care. He's gotten what he wants, and now there's really only one conclusion. 

He keeps thrusting as Charles writhes under him, body and mind conflicted. Charles' hips rise to meet his as his hands spasm, pulling pointlessly on the invisible restraints keeping him prone. His shoulders jerk, trying to flip himself over despite the impossibility of it, even as he opens his mouth to let out a moan that would put a high-end prostitute to shame. He wants even as he tries to punish, to discourage, like _Erik_ is the pet who needs to be taught “No, bad.” Erik pushes himself even deeper at the thought, earning another of those tired, broken cries.

“Stop acting like you don't enjoy it,” he growls. It's hard to form coherent sentences, but he manages purely by the lingering offense in his veins. 

“I—” But before Charles can choke out another of his lies, Erik curls his fingers into his shoulder and pulls. Charles yelps as his back bends awkwardly, raising his ass off the bed and forcing him further back on Erik's cock. It wasn't Erik's intention, but he's hardly about to complain. He reaches around, wrapping his hand around Charles' erection, a combination of being fucked and rutting himself against the sheets.

“You _what_?” Charles chokes, as though he'd really expected Erik to be too stupid to figure it out. When an answer isn't forthcoming, Erik squeezes as he strokes it, thumbing the slit. It earns him a deep groan, half buried in the mattress Charles' cheek is pressed to, and Charles' fingers twitch, but not with defiance this time. 

“Erik... _please_...” 

The word surprises both of them, Erik knows this despite the fact he can't see Charles' face or read his mind. It isn't a plea for Erik to stop, either, but something significantly more than that. It's in the way the walls around his cock clench suddenly and Charles' erection twitches against his palm, like being driven to this point, like _saying the word_ , is arousing. Part of Erik wants to be annoyed because _no_ , this isn't how this is supposed to work; but the rest of him is twisted up in Charles like he's a warm, tangled sheet, and that's the part that wins.

He squeezes Charles, earning a quiet whimper that's muffled into the mattress, before picking up a brutal pace with his hips. He snaps forward, groaning quietly at the perfect slide of Charles against his nearly pained prick, and keeps thrusting. He strokes Charles' cock as he moves, keeping the rhythm synced because it's ten times easier than anything else. Charles' voice is still scratchy as he moans and squirms, his thighs trembling against Erik's forearm. 

“You like waking up with me fucking you?” He asks now because Charles will lie later, and he needs to know. He needs Charles to be out of his mind, keening like the brat he is, when he gets it. “'S that why you piss me off so much then just hide in here? Hoping I'll come in here and you can wake up with my prick already in you?”

Charles shudders, clamps down, and he's nearly eating the sheets in an attempt to be quiet. Erik squeezes hard enough to hurt, and the half-strangled scream makes him brutally aware of how close he is to spilling over. But not before Charles answers. Not a second before—

“Erik—don't, just—”

“ _Answer me._ ”

The struggle is minute, like Charles is just checking to make sure he _really_ can't move, like he really _has_ to answer. The chains on his ankles 'clink' lightly, and Erik feels particularly vindictive when he keeps his grip tight and thrusts once—twice—until he hits Charles'— “Yes!” 

The word is wrung from the debris he's made of Charles' composure, strangled and shamed and _perfect_. Erik doesn't even need another thrust, he just holds himself right where he is as orgasm hits him, come hitting Charles' walls and scrambling to make room for the spurts that follow. It slips into every available space, including backwards in the no-space between Erik's cock and Charles' heat, until it's nearly leaking out of him. It doesn't quite—can't get past that last ring of muscle—but all it takes is a roll of his hips to let the first dregs trail down Charles' thighs.

Charles is still pent up and shaking when he slips out of him, letting another wave gush out from the tired ring of muscle. Erik keeps a hold on his erection, keeps Charles bent at the waist, ass pert in the air, as his other hand starts stroking down his back. He does it with determination, with gentleness, as he smooths his palm from Charles' shoulder-blades to the shallow dip of his lower back. He rakes short nails against the skin, earning a shudder. Charles whimpers and squirms.

“No, don't—please, Erik, don't—” 

He knows Charles well enough to know how to work him down, back him away from the actual release. His grip gradually loosens as his strokes along Charles' back continue; Charles' cock stays hard in the slack grip of his fingers, but he doesn't get off. A few more strokes—and quiet pleas—and he lets go entirely. Charles whines for it, for contact, but Erik just pushes him slowly back to his stomach on the bed. He flips out the rarely-used chains from the headboard and wraps them through the cuffs on Charles' wrist, pulls both sets tight until he's satisfactorily spread eagle on the bed.

“You got what you wanted,” he replies simply. “Didn't you? You woke up with me fucking you into the mattress.”

Charles is trying to shift his hips against the mattress, trying to find friction, but Erik's pulled the chains tight enough that he can't get more than a few inches. He shakes his head as much as he can with it pressed into the pillow. His face is bright, and he murmurs barely coherent 'no's and 'please's. Now he's genuinely pulling on the restraints, trying to find slack that he knows isn't there.

Erik smirks despite the fact it can't be seen. There's something dark and satisfying about this, and he moves up to press his lips against Charles' shoulder. It's like giving someone the silent treatment and seeing how riled they get by the lack of response—except ten times better. He rubs his thigh lightly against the cleft of Charles' ass, and for all he can't move, Charles tries to press back into it.

“We'll discuss this in the morning,” he murmurs against the nape of Charles' neck. He feels Charles go still under him, but there are small, needy vibrations to his muscles as Erik slips off of him. 

Maybe sleeping off their argument in a separate bedroom wasn't such a bad idea after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Make Me Wanna Die" by The Pretty Reckless.


End file.
